The Long Way Home
by Refrain0455
Summary: It was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident. Chased out of Cyrodill and into the freezing North, a lost Nord searches for home in Skyrim. Summaries bite. Non Dragonborn-OC. M for language, violence, and adult themes in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. I edited a bit - sooooooooooo many mistakes. Also, I don't own anything Bethesda does, just a few/lot original characters.

The Long Way Home

I.

"I don't have the faintest idea as to where the fuck I am." It was a chant that she had been saying under her breath for the better part of an hour. A chant because it was easy to focus on. Under her breath because she was pretty sure she was being tracked. A glance over her shoulder into the night verified this - faint torchlight, three tiny embers in the distance floating about light lazy fireflies. They were cautious and all too impatient. She was surprised at their resilience - she didn't think they would have the resolve to follow her for a fortnight, much less to the Skyrim border.

Biting the inside of her cheek in minor annoyance, Myalca looked ahead. There was a faint breeze...it carried something...familiar? Ducking back down low to the grass, the feathery tops of the heather brushing under her tunic, she crept a bit to the West, into a small clearing. Pale eyes dart overhead, praying the cloud cover lasted long enough to prevent the moon from casting her shadow into the attention of those that followed.

Satisfied with her position, Myalca sat back on her haunches and bent her head, eyes closed, ears open. One breath passed. Then two. Sounds come first. Nearby there were deer watching her, sniffling and pawing the ground nervously but quietly, unsure of what to make of the crouched guest in their grove. A bit higher were resting birds of prey and squirrels, their tiny quick breaths giving the trees around her a resonance that swayed with their own organic life. Further were the prickling crackle of the guard torches - and their agitated deep-throated mumbles. Distinct words weren't there, but they were clearly none too pleased about the outcome of their trek. Dissonance...harsh response...someone must have suggested turning back and the answer was negative - but commanding.

Daxus. No, he wouldn't turn back. He couldn't. Their steps were clumsy and shuffling, probably to their commander's annoyance. He knew his prey. He knew she was listening. He was undoubtedly well-suited to command, though. She heard no fear in their voices. No doubt. Just exhaustion.

And, ah, finally, there were scents. Luckily, the wind was in her favour and came from the North. There was a bite in it - cold. There was a freshness under that - pine. Two more breaths - and then there was rain? A faint humidity that settled in the back of her throat. Heavily. Death. Falkreath and its infamous cemetery. That's where she was. That's what was familiar. The trade of Arkay. The blessings of that red, red sun. Opening her eyes slowly, she extended her legs and rose up slowly, attempting to reconcile her sight with where she smelled she was located. Unfortunately, as before, "I don't have the faintest idea as to where the fuck I am."

Except now it was a lie.

She was near Falkreath.

And Skyrim.

Daxus wouldn't cross the border. At least, she was banking on him not crossing the border. If she successfully slips out of Cyrodiil, she'll be under Tullius' jurisdiction. His problem. And from what she had heard, the Legion would be in no condition to track down one woman, much less cart her back to Cyrodiil. If anything else, if she is caught, she can only hope they decide to execute her there instead of shipping her back...home? Is that what it was?

Myalca looked back South, from whence she came. The sky seemed significantly darker. The stars seemed to dim in the face of her pained searching. The clouds moved slower, dredging across the sky as one dredges a net in a river to fish out dead soldiers.

A crack , a curse, a slap on the back of the head.

That was a morbid thought.

They're getting closer.

She turned north and continued to follow the faint smell of rain and graves.


	2. Dismayed

A.N. Again, I did some editing. Midterms are over so the next chapter should be up soon. Many thanks for your perusal!

Dismayed

II.

There was too much movement coming from behind him. If anyone was warily watching for them, as he was sure she was, they would have been spotted a mile away.

Damn rangers. Daxus stopped in his tracks, a near-resigned sigh escaping from his chest. It was almost light again and it looked like rain. He set his jaw and gave a wearisome glance over his shoulder at the men who volunteered to track with him; Daxus' first impression of them had been that they were young. Not physically maybe, two were older than he was, but the enthusiasm with which the 5 of them had volunteered to accompany him when the General bade it gave them joviality that, honestly, Daxus found annoying. He found everyone annoying these days. Children bouncing on the balls of their feet, trying to get a look at him as he rode into the city or grab a strand of his horse's hair as a souvenir. Grown men looking upon him with wonder and hope - that damn misplaced fool of a notion - aspiring that their sons would achieve as much glory as he had. Aged women appraising him as one does when trying to ascertain he value of a bolt of cloth - thinking of their daughter's futures, no doubt – but no face was pretty enough to convince him to marry below his station. He was, after all, a practical man. The younger women, though...well, he was a war "hero" and they venerated him as such. Pretty faces and soft bodies and hair as dark as a freezing night at sea. Their veneration was sorely misplaced, however. That was his personal opinion.

He loved his nation as he hated it. Loved his command as he hated his work.

But he was born into this. It wasn't a decision he ever could have made himself.

So it must have been one of the nine - no, eight - that placed him where he was, unalterable as his station had become.

He'd spat in the face of death and walked hand in hand with the idea of leaving this plane once and for all...but he wouldn't question the wisdom of the Gods.

Turning his gaze north, Daxus scanned for his quarry. He'd been in this situation before, and he knew that he was finished with this. She had slipped away and into the darkness. No doubt she would use the political turmoil of Skyrim to keep her shrouded from the gaze of the Emperor. Titus II was a solitary, unmoving figure that captured great respect from Daxus. The Battle of the Red Ring was one that Daxus lamented not having been a part of, having only just started his enlistment with the Legion. And still raging against them for that matter. But those were far away, unhappy, thoughtless things. Daxus knew his place now. It was in command for blood and Emperor. Titus II wasn't unmoving by any lack of will, certainly, just a lack of capability, given the political circumstances. Damn elves. Daxus, on the other hand, was well flexible enough to deal with one girl. Tulluis would no doubt need competent commanders to deal with the certainly under-estimated Nord threat.

Daxus took a breath and smiled to himself. He hadn't been in Skyrim for ages and this was the perfect time to go back. There would be chaos, so no politics would hold him back from his hunt. Tullius would, no doubt, give him free reign to operate as he pleased given his stellar service record. Of course, Tullius need not know about his core objective. There would be blood to be spilled and glory reap and mead to revel in (if Daxus deigned, as he rarely did, to submit to such things) and there would be a great and wondrous sight to behold as he grabbed the last piece of this long-lasting Ranger puzzle.

Myalca was the missing link. She knew where the rest of the Rangers disappeared to, why they abandoned the Empire's borders and left them to fall and be ravaged by elven magics. He would find her. And he would pry the answers out of her if it meant burning Skyrim to the ground to do it.

"Commander?" A tentative voice. Deep, but troubled. Uncertain.

He must have been musing longer than he thought.

Daxus regarded the man with a barely concealed weary appraisal. Loth. The man's name was Loth. He was seasoned, but still young. Young enough to be excited about the venture. Young enough to approach the Bloody Commander and show his fear. His lips were chapped - he hadn't headed the older soldiers and continued to drink mead for the trip's entirety. Had Daxus not been so focused on keeping his pace, he likely would beaten the boy for his insolence. His fair hair was ragged from constantly taking his helmet on and off - it hadn't been broken in yet, he must have had a promotion relatively recently. And his eyes - bright blue drops of sky in a tanned, scarred field that marked the boy's face. Boy...boy...if anyone had referred to Daxus as a boy when he was Loth's age, he would have runt them through the neck with his blade.

"Yes?"

"I don't think we'll find her here." Loth suggested, his eyes jumping from the northern horizon back to the Commander, both framed by cold light of the sun rising on their right. Daxus was still for a moment. He hadn't asked the boy his fucking opinion. He set his teeth. Steady the rage, calm she goes.

"Not very likely, is it?"

Loth nodded in assent and the smallest of smiles came upon him as he his nervous assertion was accepted by the famed Commander.

"So that's it?!" Demanded a more aggressive voice. Another county heard from. "We carry our happy asses all the way to the end of nowhere and turn around because of a fucking line painted on a map?! Let's get our asses in there!"

Temius. One of the men in his temporary command that almost doubled his age. Daxus couldn't blame him for the frustration. Taking orders from what, to you, was a whelp, being promised gold and glory on this excursion, and then having to walk back less than empty handed...it was understandable. But Daxus wasn't in the mood to be understanding. His hard eyes turned onto the older man, and fixated on a spot just below his collarbone.

Loth moved between the men, one arm extended to the Commander even though he knew that if Daxus decided to strike, his arm wouldn't be able to do much of anything but get broken or sliced off.

The way Temius was acting, the latter seemed more likely.

"Listen, boy, I'm talking to you!" Daxus' eyes snapped back up to Temius', whatever memory he was lost in fading quickly.

"We can't go walking into Skyrim, especially from the South, without the rebels thinking it's an act of war. Riften is right there and the Thieves Guild has been on the rise, which leads to more than doubled guard patrols. Word would reach Windhelm well before we could present ourselves to Solitude. Without backing from the Legion forces already here, we'd be dead men walking." His tone was level, factual, and bored. He didn't have to explain himself to Temius, or to anyone. Loth seemed to understand it, but Temius kept pushing.

"Fuck the politics of the thing! We were promised a reward for this bounty and I intend to-" but his intentions where cut short, dripping from his open mouth as his blood streamed over Daxus' short blade. Loth blinked hard, his breath caught.

He saw Daxus move, but thought he was shifting his weight or something. He hadn't even heard his blade on the scabbard. Daxus' arm was tense, now supporting Temius' head as well as the force needed to push through flesh and muscle and bone and back out. Daxus raised his leg and kicked Temius off of his blade, the body falling dully to the ground. The three other Legionnaires came up quietly, any disagreement with the Commander's decision dying swiftly upon meeting his almost bored expression.

Daxus calmly wiped his blade on his bare forearm, the blood darkening against his tanned skin. Loth swallowed uneasily, unsure of what to make of the action. Could Daxus really get away with that? He was famous, sure, he successfully held off more than his share of detractor attacks and Dominion infiltrations - but would even this be beyond reproach? With the almost mechanical ease with which Daxus returned his blade to its sheath and called for the company to return to the capital, Loth assumed that nothing would be said of the demise of Temius.


End file.
